


An Ordinary Affair

by youngskeleton



Category: Bandom, Music RPF, Rock Music RPF, The Strokes
Genre: Angst, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, New York City, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 16:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11256567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngskeleton/pseuds/youngskeleton
Summary: They stayed up the night before, watching the stars on the balcony. Nick remembers dangling his feet off  the edge, surveying the light-filled streets below. L'appel du vide, Fab whispered in his ear: the call of the void, how it sucks a man in like a moth to a flame. The last things floating in his hazy mind are memories of passing a bottle of wine back and forth at midnight. Fab sitting up in his bed between the sheets, with a sketchbook propped up on his knees.





	An Ordinary Affair

It's a Sunday morning, and Nick couldn't think of a better place to wake up than next to Fabrizio Moretti. Fab’s curled around his side, catlike. Nick watches those inky black eyelashes flutter, lets his eyes trail over his best friend’s face. Beat. A breath. There are soft lines around Fab’s eyes, he notes. When did that happen? They're getting old. Another beat. Disentangling his arm from underneath  Fab’s side, he lies against the headboard and watches Fab’s sailboat-white curtains flutter in the November breeze. 

They stayed up the night before, watching the stars on the balcony. Nick remembers dangling his feet off  the edge, surveying the light-filled streets below.  _ L'appel du vide _ , Fab whispered in his ear: the call of the void, how it sucks a man in like a moth to a flame. The last things floating in his hazy mind are memories of passing a bottle of wine back and forth at midnight. Fab sitting up in his bed between the sheets, with a sketchbook propped up on his knees. 

“This was when we went to London … Waterloo sunset, just like the song … Strawberry Fields, can you believe she didn’t know the Beatles? … London Bridge….”

And now he was here: 8 AM, with the bustling city below and the wintry morning light sneaking across hardwood floors. Only the morning before was he trapped in a conference room as the dull monotony of suits, speeches and second-rate coffee crept along hour by hour. Only the morning before did he wake in a Holiday Inn, alone and jetlagged. Only the morning before did he make two calls: one to the airline, and one to Fab. 

Not a bad way to wake up, all in all. Best friends. 

He's lying. The sheets are smooth and the body is familiar, but the bed is not his own. He isn't lying; he's sat half-up now. Fab is awake, brushing charcoal curls out of his eyes. Trailing fingers down Nick’s arm, calloused and warm, calling goosebumps in their wake. They know what's going to happen next. It's a dance, elaborate, rare birds preening and whistling. 

"Hey Nick." Casual, looking up through his delicate eyelashes. "You want to have some fun?" His fingers are carding through Nick’s hair now, strand by strand. Nick leans into his touch.

"Sure." He shrugs a little, already smiling. He can’t help it. "Nothing better to do." 

When it's over, while they're still grinning and blissful, Nick sits between Fab’s legs and intertwines their fingers above his heart. "This is so gay, dude," he gripes out of habit, but he can feel Fab smiling against his neck. They fit together, he muses. Fab’s hand is so small, engulfed by his own, and he's overcome with protectiveness; they've been through so much together, and back on the streets Fab was always the first to throw a punch in his defense. The rise and fall of Fab’s chest behind him is slow and even, and Nick can't help but drift back to sleep.

He's alone as he wakes, but it doesn't matter. Nick could lie forever, spread out over sheets that smell of sunrise. Eventually, his phone buzzes on the nightstand and breaks his reverie. It's the taxi company reminding him that a driver will be over in an hour to bring him to the airport. Amanda must have scheduled one for him yesterday. Always thoughtful. When Nick told her his business trip was extended another day, she fussed over him on the phone; reminded him to bring gum for the flight; told him the latest news about their kids and cats and life at the office.  

Clangs of metal, a kettle whistling and faint humming fill the air. Fab is in the kitchen, busying himself with breakfast, and the thought of leaving aches in his mind all the while. It never gets easier, no matter how many times they've gone through this routine. 

Nick gets up, and makes his way unannounced to the bathroom. The shower head is too low, the water is lukewarm and he’s aware that he shouldn't be alone. Not like this. He uses some of Fab’s shampoo and ignores the makeup containers and perfume sprawled around the sink. There’s a set of his-and-hers towels on the rack. Hand-stitched monograms; of course she would be the kind to go for embroidery. It occurs to him that he doesn’t know her name, only her initials, her enjoyment of solo trips in the countryside and her face. 

He knows her face from a portrait of her that looms from up on Fab’s front hallway: a woman in a grey dress looking over her shoulder. Maybe it isn’t her at all: he knew Fab would paint the pigeons in the park if they’d stand still long enough to pose. Back in school, he even did a portrait of  Nick. Maybe Fab still had it hidden away somewhere, because Nick never kept it. Maybe Fab threw it away. Maybe it never existed. With a sigh, Nick runs his hands through his hair and decides against shaving. There isn't enough time. 

A gust of cool air greets him when he returns to the room, his hair wet against his neck. The balcony windows are open, and Fab stands, back to him, against the Manhattan skyline. Rows of buildings, blue in the fog, stretch out into the distance. It’s almost winter. The melancholy of the moment fills Nick with a powerful sadness, and all he can do is wrap his arms over Fab’s shoulders and hold him against the iron railing. They are still for minutes, and Nick is aware of every beat of his heart and breath in his lungs. 

"I have to leave." He says, and wishes he didn't. Fab won't look at him, and it's breaking his heart. After a long pause, Fab begins to speak. 

"Do you remember that time in Hawaii when everything was getting rough with the band, and like, Julian was being a dick and insisted we all take separate vacations, so I went on that hike with a bunch of surfers through the rain forest?" Nick nods, half-remembering. He had been so fed up the arguing and the tour that he hadn't been completely sober for a minute of that trip. Validated, Fab resumes his story, gesturing with increasing intensity. "We were walking through all these vines, seeing cool birds and plants and whatever, and then we got to this mountain and I said  _ hasta luego _ , motherfuckers. I climbed that shit like a goat for hours, and then when I got to the top-" 

"I was there." The words fall off Nick’s lips, and he can see it clear in his mind's eye; standing upon the rock, arms spread out, and Fab appearing in front of him like magic. They begin laughing, laughing so hard Nick is afraid they'll topple over the railing, and Fab catches his breath. 

"You were in like, a hermit's cabin, tripping on acid in the middle of nowhere, and I couldn't believe it, man." He finally turns around, lays hopeful eyes on him, reaches up to place a hand on Nick’s shoulder. "I don’t know about fate. I don’t know about God, or anything like that. But that day I knew we can't quit each other, even when we try. Even now..." 

The meaning of it all knocks the wind out of Nick, sends him sprawling. He takes a step back, and Fab’s hand falls away. 

"God," he manages, "Fab, I'm so sorry." There had been a million reasons then for not staying together, and there were a million reasons now. He looks down at his hands to collect himself, stares at the gold wedding ring he will never remove. Fab turns away again with a rueful smile, self conscious and reticent all at once. 

"I miss you sometimes, that's what I'm trying to say." There are no words in Nick’s mouth when he looks, only a bittersweet taste, so he buries his face in Fab’s neck in helpless apology.   
Maybe they would have worked out. Nobody cared much in New York back then if you lived in the right place. Nick’s family was too busy to care; Fab’s parents were in some far-flung corner of Brazil. Beyond every other obstacle, it wouldn’t have been too difficult. But it was, and now Fab had an apartment full of paintings and a girlfriend who could go to London and pink-and-blue matching towels. Nick had a wife and two awful, adorable kids and three cats. Anything else just wasn’t possible. 

"It shouldn't be a choice, you know?" he says. Fab shivers under his fingers; it's too cold to be outside like this. Nick holds him tighter, wills him to understand. They can't change the past, and right now, Nick is too afraid to change the future. The sunny shores of Los Angeles beckon just as much as those of the city. "I could never…" 

A horn sounds in the street below, breaking the scene. It is the taxi, come to ferry Nick to the airport, to L.A., to his wife and kids. In twelve hours he’ll be unpacking his suitcase and kissing Amanda with Nickelodeon blaring from the family room. Home again. 

The next few minutes are a blur of suitcases and murmured goodbyes and half-promises, Fab’s door closing with a click and the taxi driver starting his ever-ticking meter. With two new text messages from Amanda, a suitcase and a heavy heart, Nick climbs in.  

At the airport, he buys gum for his ears, a book for his boredom and an skyscraper keychain for his wife. Made of paper-clip wire, it glitters interestingly enough for an apology.

The plane takes off with a roar, and Nick peers through the window to the sprawl of a toybox town far below. If he looks hard enough, pierces through the clouds and the noise and the people, he can still see Fab, perched on the balcony and forever waving  _ au revoir _ . 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Some artistic liberties were taken. I turned this in for my English class and got an A lmao


End file.
